


A Man of White

by Amand_r



Category: Highlander: The Series, Yami No Matsuei
Genre: Crossover Pairing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-16
Updated: 2011-03-16
Packaged: 2017-10-17 00:58:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amand_r/pseuds/Amand_r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You had been sitting at the bar, drinking ridiculously priced sake, when he had come in, and he had been very handsome, and kind of alluring, and yet you had thought to yourself that there's something to mistrust in an man who wore all white.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man of White

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elistaire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elistaire/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Человек в белом](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3671559) by [lilic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilic/pseuds/lilic)



> For Elistaire. Prompt: A little Methos and Muraki action.

**PRESENT:**

You don't even _like_ Shikoku. It has lots of holy ground, sure, but as far as vacation spots go, it's more suited to Mac than you. You think that maybe you might have been slightly sentimental when you booked the ticket, and wonder if you subconsciously aren't trying to atone for something. Because you would never _consciously_ express such feelings of guilt.

No matter what your intention, you're certainly paying for something now, you think to yourself as you pull at your bonds a little more before realizing that you are thoroughly and completely, undeniably, trussed up like a turkey.

The temple is very empty, and you know that you aren't in Shikoku any more, even though the scenery hasn't seemed to have changed. In the drug-induced haze, you vaguely remember the hum of plane engines and a white hand holding yours, whispering things that might have been romantic. If you were into this shit. Which you're not.

The dolls creep you the fuck out, that's for damn sure. You aren't sure why the monks keep all these dolls here and really, they probably don't belong to monks. You know they're his. You just don't want to think about him, because you have noticed that when you _do_ think about him he tends to show up. Sometimes with a needle, and sometimes with a scalpel. And you regenerate what you lose, but it doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt. It also doesn't mean that it isn't rather disturbing.

And the head in the tank? That's the pinnacle of it, really. You don't need to be seeing this stuff. No one needs to see this stuff. In fact, for the first time in many years, you decide that you're calling the police the first chance you get. That is, after you escape, and are safe and sound. In, like, oh, Portugal.

...

 **PAST. PERFECT:**

The bar had been practically empty, because it was the off season for tourists, and also because most of the people who lived in the vicinity were monks, and they weren't really the drinking types. Monks in Europe were the drinking types, but Buddhist monks seemed to have their shit together, sort of speaking, what with an 8 fold path and all.

You had been sitting at the bar, drinking ridiculously priced sake, your bar tab making up for the management's poor sales for the last three years –really, a bar in _this_ place? What had they been thinking?—when he had come in, and he had been very handsome, and kind of alluring, and yet you had thought to yourself that there's something to mistrust in an man who wore all white.

That should have been a fucking clue.

But you'd _had_ to flirt, and you'd _had_ to drink some more sake, and you'd _had_ to cut yourself and let it heal in the open. So pretty much you _had_ to end up like this, in the bottom of a temple, hog-tied and waiting for him to come back.

Really, it had been like amateur hour.

...

 **PAST:**

But Muraki had beautiful lips, and they brushed against your cheek, and when you stumbled into the back of the bar, behind the dumpster, you undid his pants and dropped to your knees without really thinking about it. It had been so long, and he was tall. You liked tall men, no matter how much white they wore after Labor Day. You have had a few all-white ensembles in the past yourself...

Muraki put his hands in your hair, and you mumbled a few things you don't even remember into his underwear, and things became a little hot, a little sticky, and a little _nice_ , oh. You passed the blow job test and then got to relocate to Muraki's room at the inn, with its bed and shower and roaring fire even though it wasn't that cold and most hotel rooms in Japan didn't have fireplaces, what with the history of paper walls and very incompetent fire patrols.

Muraki smoked about fifteen cigarettes while you stared out the window at the rain, wishing that it hadn't been so muddy, and your knees looked like brown hubcaps, but then he said to you that the best way to get clean was with a partner, and the shower was actually a bath tub, and you like to shave other man's faces with a straight razor. It's a kink.

Muraki let you lather him up, even though he didn't have any facial hair to shave, and that was fucking hot too, really, but you weren't paying attention at the time because he was stroking you the whole time, and that alone was distracting enough, without the shaving cream, and the wet commas of hair hiding his eyes. His eyes, that was the first thing you noticed about him. And the voice, no wait, _that_ was the first thing you had noticed. Well, that and his jacket. Well who knows what anyone really ever notices about a person first?

After the fake shave Muraki turns you around and you watch his face in the mirror when he fucks you—it's kind of taut and filled with passion, but in retrospect when you think of it you realize that it had actually been ambition.

 

 **PRESENT:**

But all of that had led to this: ropes and bloodletting and these fucking _dolls,_ One of whom must be breakable into little pieces that can cut through nylon rope. Then you can get out of here, and far away from Japan, with its temples and sake and goddamned freaks in white coats who know how to use pickled ginger as a sexual prop.

Jesus, is white the new color of evil? What ever happened to brown, or good old-fashioned black?

You roll on your side into one of the shelves, banging it repeatedly until one of them falls to the ground, a little girl in yellow ruffles and dead eyes, as dead as the eyes in the tank. You grasp it by what you feel to be the torso and ram it onto the floor for a few minutes, cursing doll-makers and their need to create a sturdy product, but eventually it breaks and you grope around for a few shards that might have something of an edge.

Three hours later you are sitting on the side of the road shivering in the cold. You don't know why you took it. It will obviously be missed, but it kept _looking_ at you, and you aren't even sure if it isn't self-aware, so you had broken the glass and taken it.

The lights of an oncoming car slowdown for a second, then when the driver sees that you are wet and white and holding a severed head, he speeds up. The cops will be here soon. You can tell them all about the head. Or you can ditch it.

You can't make yourself let go. The head looks at you, doll like, but when you tip its head back, the eyes don't close.

END


End file.
